


Hotel Suite

by GillO



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Jossverse
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Post-Series, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike is determined to give Buffy the wedding of her dreams. Or his dreams. Or possibly nightmares. </p><p>He enlists the help of some ladies with pointy hats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

By the time she had an actual wedding night Buffy was pretty confident there was no sexual activity she hadn’t tried with Spike. He was endlessly inventive, and his vampire stamina didn’t hurt either. He might not be able to spell it all, but good lord he could achieve some literally breathtaking moments.

She was surprised, then, to see him going to so much trouble to choose their wedding venue and honeymoon hotel. She hadn’t been able to get near her laptop for days, and he had learned the infuriating trick of deleting his browsing history. Not that she would have dreamed of trying to check out where he had been looking. No way. That would have been _**wrong**_.

She’d agreed to a winter wedding, in Scotland at that. “Not much daylight, pet. And we might get to see the Northern Lights.” As if either of them cared about that. Dawn had gone into a huddle with Willow to design dresses that were warm and glamorous. Spike refused to wear a kilt. Xander agreed until he discovered from Giles that Spike had refused. Spike shrugged – it had been fun while it lasted.

The day, the shortest of the year, naturally, approached. Buffy grew ever more avoidy as Spike became fixated by detail. On the rare occasions they met alone she took to begging him to elope. He refused. She threatened to choose _Wind Beneath Your Wings_ for the first dance. He smiled and humoured her. He didn’t quite pat her on the head, but it was close.

Dawn took her aside two days short of The Day Itself. “Buffy, I just don’t get it. I can remember you doodling sketches of wedding dresses all over your jotter when you were in high school.” _No you don’t. You didn’t even exist then._ “When you were engaged to him that time Willow did a spell you spent hours planning the cake. So why are you treating it as one big yawn now? Even Giles is more excited than you are.”

It was hard to explain to herself, let alone to Dawn. Something to do with Sunnydale – and Mom – being not just in a crater but actually composing a crater. Something to do with all her virginal dreams having been about marrying another vampire. The wrong vampire, she now knew, but still. Something to do with not needing external validation for a relationship which had started with murderous intent on both sides and matured through frenzied sex into deep, abiding passion and love that was not going to be affected by any white dress or formal certificate. It wasn’t as if it was going to be in a church, or even a kirk. 

No, it was an excuse for a party, that was all. And Buffy and parties? Not so good a track record. She recalled surprise birthday parties with demons, Welcome Home parties with zombies, birthday parties that refused to end, drinks parties that just felt that way. Somehow, none of this had the slightest thing to do with her and Spike. She was so over it.

The day before the day before the ceremony she allowed herself to be vamphandled into a luxe cabin on an overnight train. “Bad luck to see each other now, pet. When you wake you’ll be in Bonnie Scotland, you’ll see. And I’ll see you coming down the aisle the day after. Beautiful, you’ll look.” And he turned, waved and vanished into the dark of the station. King’s Cross Station no less. As if she was going to Hogwarts – which she might just as well be doing for all she knew.

Willow and Dawn had the cabin next door and bubbled and frothed their way through the evening as if they had no need of the large bottles of Bollinger so thoughtfully provided by the groom in a hamper delivered ten minutes after the train moved out of the station. Buffy sipped cautiously at a single glass, then pleaded a headache and turned in.

And when she woke up she was in Scotland. After their carriage had pulled out of Edinburgh breakfast was delivered to her door – Eggs Benedict, pancakes, and yet more champagne. _Are they all drunks in these islands?_ Slowly the view became more rugged, the grey December skies more overcast and the hills frosted with white. This was what counted as mountains round here, where anything over three thousand feet was seen as prodigious.

Buffy showered in the not entirely inadequate facilities and dressed as the train climbed away from the coast up into wilder, bleaker territory, and the snow fell steadily, no longer a scenic attraction, more an impediment to visibility. They were high up, but the terrain rolled rather than peaked, with trees increasingly rare.

And then they stopped. Dawn and Willow tumbled into Buffy’s cabin, breaking up a promising session of brooding, manhandled her into a coat they produced with a flourish and towed her along the corridor and down the steps onto a platform.

Nothing else. Just a platform. On the opposite side of the line _one track only?_ there was some sort of shed, no more. The wind blew steadily, thrusting little spears of snow and ice into her face, so that she pulled her coat more firmly round her and wished for a hood to hide her head in. This was such fun. Not.

Somebody (did they really still have porters on this line?) had passed their luggage down to them before the train hooted once and pulled away. Three young women used to California weather, a ridiculous pile of boxes and cases and an empty stretch of concrete. Correction – an empty stretch of snow-covered concrete. The day was getting better and better.

The sky by now was almost a charcoal colour – one good reason to choose the place for a vampire wedding, perhaps. No, change that. The only good reason to select this god-forsaken patch of icy nowhere. Buffy’s nose was getting cold. Probably red too, which was just perfect for a bride-to be. It was one thing to be annoyed at all the fuss, but quite another to swan down the aisle looking as if she had a heavy cold or was recovering from losing a punch-up. Something she did not do; this was doubly, no, trebly unfair.

She was seriously considering whether covering her nose with her hands might lead to loss of a finger or so from frostbite when a loud honking sound made her turn round. An enormous yellow bus stood there, steam curling off the hood, which was of a style Pa Joad would recognise. The whole thing looked like it was held together by chewing gum and hope, but it had a roof, wheels at each corner and some sort of seating – and clearly offered the best chance of not becoming popsicle!Buffy. She clambered on board the big open step at the rear and sank with relief onto a seat halfway along. Dawn and Willow _did they feel no sense of cold?_ bounced on the bus behind her, filling the chilled air with girlish glee and giggles. Buffy sank into a reverie and the collar of her coat.

Ten jouncing minutes later she was even happier to jump down from the bus. The snow had turned into a blizzard – at least, Buffy assumed it counted as one when seeing your boots took effort. She stumbled forwards as warm hands towed her towards a heavy oak door and beyond into the sort of hall you saw only in the cheesiest of movies.

There were beams overhead, blackened by centuries of smoke, presumably. The room smelled smoky enough now for that to be likely. Not one but two complete suits of armour, mostly shiny. Flagstones on the floor worn smooth by centuries of polishing. Dark, dark panelling on the walls.

“This isn’t a re-run with Dracula is it?” Buffy turned to Willow in sudden apprehension.

“If it is, he’s unconscionably slow about showing himself.” Giles’s dry voice floated from a leather armchair near the hearth. “No, Buffy, this is the place your fiancé selected. It’s what you might call in traditional vampiric taste, don’t you think?”

The next few minutes were devoted to squeeful reunions. Then large quantities of food were served at a huge table, the sort Milord and Milady would have needed semaphore to communicate with from one end to the other. The minions serving them were polite, if incomprehensible and apparently human. No demons anywhere, in fact. No need for the backup weapons bag she’d brought, at least she hoped not. Bride!Buffy was so not going to double up with Slayer duties. It might be a ridiculous lot of fuss – and _**why**_ couldn’t she spend the night with Spike if he was here in the mansion? – but she had some standards, and a blood-or-slime-spattered wedding gown was beyond her line in the sand.

The snow swirled against the window panes, and even the fire in her grate ( _in a bedroom? WTF?_ ) wasn’t quite enough to dispel the chill. She jumped into bed, shivering until her feet connected with a hard, hot cylinder which, on investigation, turned out to be some sort of antique pottery hot water bottle. At least it was hot. She drifted off to sleep at last, mesmerised by the patterns on the windows and the flickering reflections caused by the fire. Tomorrow was going to be a demanding day.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as he had seen the back of his beloved, Spike started to move fast. Well, as fast as the Tube would let him on a late December evening. Back in the day a nearly-empty carriage on the City Branch had been good pickings and good eating. Now it was just bloody annoying plonkers nodding their heads in time to whatever crap came out of their earphones.

It took forever to get to Waterloo – probably should have taken a different route, but how the hell was he to know? Should have got a bleeding taxi for that matter – and shafted old Rupes for the cash to pay for it too.

Still, in the end he was back at his basement pad, ready to pick up the gear and go on to Heathrow. He hoped to all the Powers that Red’s cloaking spell would work, or he might just have to eat a baggage handler. This time he was getting a cab, cost or no cost; the bags were easy enough to heft but bulky, a real bugger to manoeuvre. Last thing before he left he double-checked the small box in his pocket. Yup, both there.

He was in mid-air when he realised his fancy suit was still in its bag back at the flat. He swore fluently enough to get at least one admiring look amidst the frowns turned on him. Black leather, red shirt, black everything else it was going to have to be, then. His schedule allowed no time for suit shopping and that far up-country they would probably only have kilts to offer. He’d put his foot down about that already. Not bleeding likely.

The lights of the airport were part-obscured by the snow, even this far south. It was going to be a fun road-trip. He chucked his bags in the boot, making them clank loudly, swung into the seat of his hired car, hooked up his music thing, a present from Dawn, and pulled away with the Ramones blasting his eardrums. At last, he could relax, with a good ten hours to such sunrise as there might be, a decent set of snowchains and an open road ahead. He couldn't stick that wanker Clarkson, but on one thing they were agreed – twisty roads and powerful cars were a match made, if not in heaven, at least in a car factory.

He made it to the mansion more or less at the same time as the helicopter landed. He could have gone that way too, but the thought of the less-than-enthusiastic company of Rupert Giles and Lord Nelson was too much for him. Xander might consider himself more the Nick Fury type, but Nelson had, according to Darla, been a ponsy little squirt, which Spike felt fitted the boy better. Mind you, Darla had probably been in a fit of pique over being turned down by the famous sailor when she said that, but what the hell.

The hotel staff were waiting in a satisfyingly long line, just as he remembered from the days his Mamma had taken him on country house visits in his teens. They didn’t exactly curtsey, but they looked respectful, and that would do. The manager bloke oozed respect like cheap margarine. He was being paid enough for it. Giles and Harris were settled down by the fire, one with crappy Yank beer, the other with a fine malt, and Spike was taken round the place.

It was, as he told himself, a fine choice. All the ancestral panelling you could wish for, roaring log fires, deep pile carpets, the works. He inspected the special suite with particular interest, pointing out a few deficiencies, then approved a pretty room for his girl. He gave a few special orders, then slipped back to join the others. He supposed he’d have to call them his best men, though the words almost choked him.

He briefed them on all the unimportant stuff they needed to know, while putting himself round a fine old Laphroaig, then made his excuses and left. He strode up the wide stairs, coat flapping appropriately, across the hall, then sharp right and down the narrow steps once only used by servants, and now very convenient for vampires. Two hours to sunrise, and there was a blasted heath to find.

He slipped out of the side door. For a moment his hand stuck to the brass handle, but he tore it away, his impatience matching his temper. The latter went up several notches, however, when he saw the courtesy transport provided by the management.

A sodding golf cart.

This was all very well for driving the blissful newlyweds around the estate to catch the golden rays of the sun with their pricey photographer. Well that was going to happen. Golden rays of dust-inducing lethality – he was going to take great care to stay out of that. Right now his problem was getting the stupid little thing to move faster than he could walk, and across the lumpy snow.

It took an hour to reach the artful ruins. Great. He was really going to push the time envelope here. Nobody else was going to arrange this sort of wedding entertainment but him. And he was determined to make this shebang memorable.

He moved carefully down the slimy, icy steps. At the bottom a rotting plank door blocked his way. One hearty kick and it was no longer an issue.

Inside three weird, haggard figures turned to face him. Surprise in varying degrees flooded their expressions. The shortest one even dropped the dried amphibian she was holding.

“Where shall we four meet again?” Spike folded his arms and smiled the smile of the comfortable vampire. The women stared more widely and backed away.

“I saw your advert. I am Mr DuSang. I believe we have a contract you have to fulfil.”

One of the witches gasped, just a little. The most crabbed and bent hobbled forward, however, and took his pale hand in her gnarled fingers.

“Of course, of course. What a pleasure to meet you at last. I gather you require our services for event disruption?”

Spike lodged himself comfortably on a crude table. “Yes indeed. How do you feel about a wedding?”


	3. Chapter 3

When Buffy was woken by stubbing her toe on the chilly lump of earthenware in her bed, she just knew this was going to be a memorable day in all the wrong ways. She would have to glow with happiness, shine in the dress she hadn’t yet seen, be gracious to all her family and friends. She would have to go through a huge formal party, with all the potential that had for disaster. All so she could carry on doing what she had been doing with Spike for years.

She sat up and swung her legs out of bed. Yes, she had chipped the paint on a toenail. Good start there. Still, no way was she wearing open toes in this place and this weather, so who cared?

For a moment she caught herself and winced. What would cheerleader!Buffy have thought of her, behaving as if chipped nail varnish was unimportant? Junior in high school Buffy would have been horrified by her attitude to the whole wedding thing. 

The Buffy who stared critically at her own reflection in the slightly tarnished-looking glass was neither of these. She had killed one vampire lover and watched a second die in flames. She had sat by her mother’s cooling body and seen her home town collapse into a crater. She had died twice, returned twice, seen her friends injured, bereaved, maimed. She knew what happened to her and her loved ones on special Buffy days, and it was very rarely good.

The door flew open, making a loud slam as it ricocheted off the side wall. Dawn erupted into the room, closely followed by Willow. Buffy pasted on her best smile. It would spoil the day for them if she was anything other than excited, and she’d grown out of the phase when her own feelings were allowed to interfere with the happiness of those around her.

“Close your eyes, Buffy!” She obeyed her sister’s command. There was a slight creak – a door opening? Then a great deal of rustling and an odd swishing sound. She felt the light touch of a hand against her neck and something soft and silky on her face. “Open!”

She obeyed and, despite her cultivated calm and innate cynicism, gasped. Willow was holding a glorious white gown up, between Buffy and the mirror. The bodice shimmered with tiny sequins – well, it wasn’t as if her vampire was ever going to sparkle. She grinned at the thought – and heard simultaneous sighs of relief from both of her companions.

“Do you like it, Buffy? Do you really like it?”

“I can change it if you hate it. OK, magic, but in these circumstances even Giles couldn’t mind could he?” Willow sounded proud, nervous, brave and ebullient all at once – a messy combination. 

Buffy smiled. “Will, it’s adorable. Bit cold around the shoulders, but what the heck…”

Dawn interrupted, “We’ve thought of that. Isn’t this the fluffiest, squishiest thing you’ve ever seen?” She waved around a swansdown jacket, the fine filaments floating in the cool air. It was so white it glowed.

“We have booties too. Fur-lined. Warm but kicky. You’re so the bride who can kick ass!” Willow’s enthusiasm grew as she watched the smile on Buffy’s face travel to her eyes.

“You don’t have to do anything this morning. We are your handmaidens, ‘K?” Dawn took charge. Unbelievably scary, but not exactly unfamiliar. Over the next two hours Buffy suffered herself to be prinked and primed, from her fingertips to her toes. (“Of course we have to redo these nails. Spike will see them if nobody else will!”) Her hair was washed, groomed, twisted and pinned to within an inch of its life. “That bun ain’t going nowhere. No sir!” A silky veil was pinned to the knot of hair and flowed down her back.

By the time she was dressed she was ready for a rest as her attendants rushed off to costume themselves. “Not green, I promise!” were Willow’s parting words.

Almost afraid to move, Buffy regarded herself carefully. The effect, even she had to admit, was magnificent. The bodice was sculpted to fit her upper body, embracing it in a warm, firm grasp. The dress spread out into layers of the lightest possible tulle skirts – with a good, warm underskirt closest to the skin. The fluff of the down waved gently in the currents of air but she felt no desire to sneeze, thanks to a minor charm, Willow had assured her. She felt warm, but better than that, she felt loved.

A quiet tap on the door was followed by the voice of Giles. “Buffy, may I come in?” He did so, carrying two glasses and a bottle, but he stopped short as he took in the vision in white before him.

“Oh my word. Buffy, you are … exquisite.” Trust Giles to find the fancy language. He gestured to the bottle. “I thought a little Dutch courage might be in order. Well, Scotch courage at least.”

Buffy winced. “Is it like that disgusting stuff Spike drinks? I don’t know how he manages to down so much of it.”

Giles looked not so much offended as disappointed. Deeply so. Buffy gulped. Disappointed!Giles was always the worst type. She could cope with his annoyance far better than the sense that he felt she’d let him down. She didn’t need to ask; it was entirely clear that she had overstepped the mark and implied something barely forgiveable. 

He poured two glasses. The liquid was a deep, mellifluous amber colour. She took the noticeably smaller quantity offered to her and sniffed, suspiciously, then sipped. A warm, peaty sensation flowed down her throat and into her sinews. She felt somehow stronger, more confident. Could this much make her tipsy? Surely not.

Giles watched her, a critical expression giving way to a smile as he realised that, yes, she did like his choice. “Warm, right? It can have that effect. Why do you think the Scots created it?”

She grinned back at him. Perhaps, just once, a Buffy special day could go right?

* * * * * 

Spike made it back to the house as the sun set. An entire day in a dank cell, with snow melt running down the walls and his neck had not been a lot of fun. When he finally made it to the room allocated to him ( _No, he would not like to join Miss Summers, thank you very much._ ) he was abe to look at the damage to his dignity and his clothes. The news was bad. His jeans were coated in slime – not just the knees, which he’d kind of expected, but, when he removed them to look more closely, his bum too. If he wore those to get hitched, his Missus would never let him hear the end of it.

Mmm.. the Missus. He spent a few minutes in a reverie. He, William the Bloody Useless, was actually going to marry the most beautiful girl in this world or any other. Time to bite on the bullet.

He lifted the phone and called Reception. “No problem, sir.” Within ten minutes a selection of garments was there for him to choose from. No doubt some stupid bugger considered them appropriate at that.

* * * * * 

Buffy glanced at the clock just as Giles put down his glass. “I think it’s time for us to go down, don’t you?” he said. Odd memories of the time, nearly a decade ago now, when she’d first asked him to give her away to Spike flitted through his memory. Strange how things changed, that he was now actually walking down the stairs, this beautiful, almost ethereal creature on his arm, to do precisely that.

At the foot of the stairs Willow and Dawn waited, in deepest blue gowns accented with sequins on their bodices to echo Buffy’s. They lined up and waited for the music to change and the double doors to open.

* * * * * 

In the hall great swags of greenery woven with gold and silver ropes adorned the walls, the door frames and the windows. Spike paced irritably not far from the heavily-curtained windows - no stray sun rays to bugger up his wedding, thank you very much. He glanced at his watch. One twenty-two and fifteen seconds now. She was two and a quarter minutes late. Had she decided not to marry a creature of the night after all?

A slight sound at the back, and suddenly the music changed. Xander grabbed him by the arm and towed him back into position. From the corner of his mouth he muttered, “This is it. Too late to back out now.”

Both turned and looked in awe at the vision coming down the aisle towards them. Who could possibly want to back out of this?

The Registrar moved into position, smiling encouragingly at Spike, who stepped away from his seat, turning to face her. As he did so, he felt the kilt swish around his knees.

Bloody Hell. This really was real now.  
 


	4. Chapter 4

The music swelled – Mendelssohn, of course – Spike was such a romantic. Buffy gulped and clutched Giles’s arm, and they began their stately progression up the aisle. To each side were smiling friends – a select group, true, but real, tested friends. Ahead, Spike’s smiling eyes were mesmerising, so much that it took her a moment to take in the full glory of his attire.

This was too much. A t-shirt? His ropy old silver chain? Not even a tie, let alone a tux. Her eyes travelled down and she stopped short with a jolt, making Giles stumble.

He. Was. Wearing. A. Kilt. 

Not any kilt, no. A sloppy, dark green number. Below that, sneakers. Sneakers. The man who had pushed and prodded her into this wedding, who had spent so many hours picking out the venue, so much time away from her plotting details with Willow and Dawn, who had insisted on ridiculous cloak-and-dagger stuff which had left her to wake up alone in a chilly bed. Sneakers.

The slow march became a quick-step. Buffy was not going to back out now, but Spike’s range of options for his wedding night had just diminished dramatically. Giles was towed along in her wake; his grunt of surprise became an indrawn breath of astonishment as he saw what she had noticed first.

Xander stepped forward, shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes for Buffy’s benefit, then gave Spike a little shove. The Registrar stood up and came forward, and the ceremony began.

Nothing occurred to mar the proceedings further until the rings had been exchanged – a simple gold band for Buffy, a platinum Death’s-head with ruby eyes for Spike. ( _She was so going to make him suffer for that._ ) They signed the documents, witnessed by Giles, Xander and Willow, the Core Four symbolically united again. The Registrar intoned the concluding words.

And out of the heavy drapes swooped a flock of bats. They swirled around Buffy’s head, like starlings in the skies of Rome, what felt like a lifetime ago. They were tiny and noiseless. And ubiquitous. 

Buffy flapped vainly at her head as they circled her. So did several of the guests, though their shrieks were restrained. That is, until the bats began to land and transform in front of them into tall, tuxedo-suited men, mostly astonishingly handsome, all athletically-built and with the sort of eyes Xander had once, many eons ago, called “Pierce-Brosney”. They gathered in a loose semi-circle around the happy couple.

Then, one at a time, they dropped to one knee and started to sing. In tune, not unbeautifully, even, they proceeded through a sequence of love songs, starting with Adele and moving back through Eighties hits and punk and Cliff Richard, the Beatles and Cole Porter and back to music that could only be Victorian.

_Good morrow, good lover!_  
Good lover, good morrow!  
I prithee discover,  
Steal, purchase, or borrow  
Some means of concealing  
The care you are feeling,  
And join in a measure  
Expressive of pleasure,  
For we're to be married today today!  
Yes, we're to be married today!**

This was enough. Buffy raised her hand and looked daggers at her new husband.

The choir responded instantly. They stood smoothly and their faces shifted, with lumpy brows and topaz eyes. Buffy’s jaw dropped.

“You invited a vampire choir to our wedding?” Any onlooker could tell that Spike’s chances of consummating his wedding had reached vanishing point at this moment.

Above their heads was a starburst of light. From the fireworks dropped objects, suspended on parachutes. Which were in rainbow-coloured silk with sequins attached. As they landed the strings detached themselves neatly, and the burden, a set of hand-carved stakes, bounced on the parquet floor.

Buffy grabbed two and hissed at her beloved, “One of these could well be for you, Mister.” Spike grasped two more and grinned at her. Oh yes, this was dancing – with death, yes, but with life too. Above all, with his magnificent woman.

And suddenly there was a balletic fight, the energy of the bride and groom perfectly-matched, movements completely unhampered by their flowing skirts, twists and turns, astonishing kicks (those fur-lined boots had been a good idea after all), switches, leaps and one very impressive double somersault in perfect harmony. It was superb, athletic, and very beautiful.

Giles and Xander backed away and, helpless with the rest of the audience, watched a perfect display of synchronised Slaying. Ready to make a run for it, or in some cases leap forward to help, the congregation was treated to an impressive display of lethal elegance. 

Less than five minutes later Buffy was dusting the last of the assailants from her skirt as Spike brushed down his own. Somehow her hair was still perfect, her veil not even dislodged an inch, and only a rosy glow in her complexion might suggest to any onlooker that she’d done anything more taxing than walk up the aisle and sign her name.

The music started again. Spike, taking no chances, grabbed her hand and locked it under her arm. He was glowing with pride, she with exertion as they walked back down the aisle, ready to begin their married life. To carry on as it had started, with fighting and Slaying and dusting and bickering. She glared at him - she would undoubtedly give him a hard time once they were alone. Quite possibly violence would ensue, almost certainly of a sexual nature.

Spike smirked. He had no problem with that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * From "Iolanthe" by Gilbert and Sullivan. It opened in November 1882, and Angelus, Darla, William and Drusilla went to see it, enjoying a couple of the chorus girls later in the evening. Spike would very much prefer Buffy never finds this out.


	5. Epilogue

Times had changed since Spike had last been part of a wedding party, in anything other than a snacking sense, that was. When his cousin Ida had married the happy couple had set off on their wedding trip straight from the ceremony, not even staying to partake of the meal. Just as well, in retrospect, as the discovery of her husband’s unfortunate gastric issues would have been particularly unfortunate in the context of a Victorian wedding breakfast. 

He had known that he and Buffy would remain at the hotel after the formalities were over, of course – he had made the arrangements with the hotel. He’d left the frills up to the management, however – as long as his own food was bloody enough, who cared what the guests were fed on? Who really gave a toss about the first dance, for that matter? The dancing he planned to do with Buffy would be later on and very much in private. And fun. Cake design, like the dresses, had been left to Dawn and Willow.

It was his own bloody fault, then, in retrospect, that he found himself standing next to his new wife, Giles and a pack of hangers-on in a straight line, doing the polite to all and sundry, without so much as a glass of cheap fizz to sustain him. Every so often Buffy would take his hand tenderly in hers and crush it to the bone, just in case he’d forgotten that retribution was due, all the while smiling winningly, blushing from time to time and looking bloody gorgeous.

They polished off the people he actually knew quite quickly. Not in a fun, feeding or snapping necks way, but in a polite, insincere smile, thank-you-for-coming-what-a-kind-gift way, altogether less interesting. It wasn’t such a surprise, as most of the Sunnyhell refugees were part of the wedding party. Clem had sent an interesting parcel, which Willow had carefully quarantined, just in case, and Faith had texted Buffy that morning. There were a few Londoners and some of the West Country coven who had helped Willow recover from that whole veiny phase, but no-one of interest to Spike.

Then the three ladies turned up. Bugger. 

Buffy took in their guests in an all-encompassing glance. “Friends of yours, _darling_?” she snarled through her teeth. She bestowed a radiant smile on all three, looking pointedly in enquiry at her husband. Or, as she was starting to think of him, her _first_ husband.

They were not the most prepossessing of wedding guests, even in the land of the Ancient Mariner. They were similarly-dressed, though dissimilarly-shaped, in rusty black dresses caught in at the waist, if such you wanted to call it, with leather belts which had seen better days. Some centuries ago in all probability. On her head each wore the badge of her profession, a pointy hat, slightly bent in the case of the two older members of the trio.

The tallest of the three, a gaunt lady for whom the term “a certain age” had been invented quite a few decades ago, fixed Buffy in a stare for which the term “gimlet” was destined to be used with the same sort of inevitability. “This her, then?” she sniffed. “You could have introduced us earlier, I must say. You asked us for help, mind, and I can’t be doing with the sort of manners that leaves the introductions till there’s no way out.” Another, wintery sniff. 

Vampires have no blood circulation. Thus it is impossible for them to blush.

Spike blushed.

“I am extremely sorry, ma’am. Allow me to introduce my wife. Mrs Pratt, these ladies are my very good friends…”

He was interrupted by a raucous cackle from the more rotund lady. “Don’t you go swallowing his nonsense, dearie. He paid us for services, that’s all.” Buffy’s eyebrows were heading towards the rafters. “You don’t think those were real vampire you fought do you? Well I never. How many do you know who can turn into bats?”

Spike scowled. Only one he knew of, and that wanker had definitely not had an invite.

The remaining visitor. Witch – why beat around the bush? The remaining witch coughed, a teensy ladylike cough. Two drooping, faded flowers dropped from the hair that drooped beneath her pointy hat. “Do you think we should say what we’re here for and stop interrupting the happy couple?”

The two older witches withered her with a combined glare calculated to trigger explosions. She retreated, a placating smile fading under their attack and started to twine stray locks of hair round a finger. They failed to assume curls.

The gaunt witch sniffed superbly. This was clearly her forte. Buffy swallowed hard. She was well aware of the power of combined sniff and stare, and these were hardly the first witches she’d met either. “How do you do? Spike, I don’t think you finished your introductions? I’m Buffy.” She favoured their unexpected guests with a radiant smile – a Slayer on her wedding day could do no less. 

The round one smiled back, both teeth shining in an otherwise cavernous mouth. “Yes, my love, we know that. Your boy there asked us to set up a few tricks to make your day go well. Pretty boy too – look you hang on to him.” A lascivious tongue emerged and there was a wink. Buffy repressed her shudder firmly.

Spike rolled his eyes. No practised face-reader, let alone a skilled headologist, could have missed the cocktail of impatience and boredom he was barely controlling. Two of the witches exchanged Significant Looks. The third started and, with a teensy yelp, reached out to hold the hands of her companions. They began murmuring softly. 

Buffy gripped Spike’s hand again, not admonishingly now, but for comfort. The witches retreated a step, then another. Buffy and Spike found themselves stepping forward to close the distance. Then further steps. Somehow the witches now surrounded them, and the hum had deepened, becoming intense, consuming. The black seemed to envelop them, the pointy hats curving in, until nothing else was visible.

Then there was silence. The darkness receded and there were no human figures in sight. None – not even the wedding guests. They were no longer in the hall, no longer interacting politely with near-strangers. They were alone, together, in a white room with a huge white bed and enormous mirrors on each wall and on the ceiling.

Buffy stared at her reflection. The layers of froth were rising from her ankles, revealing shapely legs. She saw faint depressions in her skin as she felt herself lifted high and launched back onto the creamy sheets. Smooth, cool hands caressed her thighs, but as she looked up all she could see were the shudders of her flesh and the rhythmic movement as her silken underwear was rubbed back and forth against her most intimate body.

“Spike! What is this? Where are we? We should be in the line!” Somehow, defying all the urges he knew so well how to arouse in her body, she tried to be the correct and proper hostess and bride. There was never a chance this approach would work.

“You don’t want to make talky-talk with those bozos, love. My witchy pals set it up so they won’t notice we’re gone. We’ll be back in time for the speeches. Now, concentrate on your wedded lord.”

That line earned him a slap, just the sort he enjoyed. He worried at her skin with soft teeth. As she surrendered to sensation she looked up again, and to the side, watching in fascination as her body responded vigorously to invisible stimulation, to the waves of tulle thrown over her belly, as her breasts were wrestled expertly from their corsetry and the nipples intensified in colour and became hard, rotating under the invisible hands.

And after that the mirrors became useless. The beautiful man on her, caressing her, entering her, was entirely real and present, reflection or no, and his kisses distracted her, his blue eyes all the focus she needed, that perfect face a fair trade for all the mirrors in the world.

She should have known they would never actually make it to their wedding _night_. Later they would be replaced, only a little dishevelled, in time to smile and receive congratulations. And, oh god, Spike would make a speech.

Right now, who gave a toss? She was consummating her marriage and everything else would just bloody well have to wait.


End file.
